Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (97 page)

“Take it away.”

“Your Majesty?” The woman stared, uncertain whether she had

misheard the instruction.

“I said, take it away—take every mirror out of my sight. Do it now—

throughout the palace!”

She would never look again into a mirror and see her living corpse,

standing like a mighty unfallen oak, superficially magnificent still, but

hollow and rotten at the core.

For almost a month she had religiously attended to state business,

received Burghley and Walsingham, conferred with her secretaries, and

signed all the necessary documents. But, in the evenings, she had shied

away from her court, knowing what waited for her in the Long Gallery

or the Great Hall. Burghley had been cool and distant when he attended

her. He had made no comment, merely looked and she knew it was no

use; she must begin to hold court again, walk back into that room like

a hen into a cockpit, and be fought and quarrelled over by a bunch of

greedy, ambitious young men, the next generation of sharp-toothed little

rodents, all trying to summon the courage to take the first bite. Once it

had been the game she enjoyed best of all; but now Robin was gone and

she was alone with the rats.

On the threshold of the Great Hall she paused a second and stared at

the vast assembly which waited for her. At her appearance, the gay talk

and laughter froze into frightened silence, and her courtiers and ladies, all

dressed tactfully in black for the late Earl of Leicester, sank to their knees

as she passed by. Their curious eyes followed her down the room and

bored into her head. She walked with an effort past the kneeling ranks,

without pausing to give a smile or a word to anyone. The Chair of State

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at the end of the room had become her only goal, a sort of sanctuary;

she had no thought beyond reaching it with dignity and decorum. Her

appearance tonight was a duty, one of the many tedious rituals which

stretched ahead over the barren years in front of her, empty, meaningless,

void of all pleasure.

From the corner of her eye she caught a movement, a flash of silver

doublet, and suddenly Essex was before her, rising from a sweeping bow,

offering her his arm. For a moment he was afraid she was going to snub

him and walk on, but his action had confused her single-minded purpose,

so that momentarily she halted and stared at him uncertainly.

He smiled, kissed the hand she had offered from force of habit, and

laid it ostentatiously on his sleeve. As he escorted her to the throne on the

dais, she was conscious of a rustle of spite and envy among the courtiers

behind her; and her heart sank. The first gauntlet of challenge had been

flung down; it had begun; and she felt suddenly angry and resentful

towards the impertinent young man who had dared to start it.

She withdrew her hand abruptly and sat down in the great chair

without thanking him for his strong arm. Her eyes narrowed on the

dazzling costume which made him so conspicuous among the dark multi-

tude of her court.

“I had not expected to see you of all people dressed for a revel,” she

said coldly. “The bereaved son—”

“Stepson,” he reminded her calmly, “and unlikely, I understand, to

remain fatherless for long. Widow’s weeds do not suit my mother.”

“Your mother,” snapped Elizabeth softly, “is an infamous whore!”

For a moment their dark eyes met with hostility, like bared swords

about to clash; and then some small vestige of common sense warned him

to swallow the hot retort which had leapt to his reckless tongue. Only a

madman would choose to quarrel with her at this moment, and he was

not mad—not yet.

The Queen turned her head away, raised the company from their knees

with a careless flick of her hand, and leaned back in her chair to brood.

So—Lettice would marry Christopher Blount after the shortest decent

interval imaginable; but they would live no life of ease on Leicester’s

estates while the Queen drew breath.

I will call in every debt that Robin owed me and when that debt is settled,

Christopher Blount will find he has married a pauper.

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She turned angrily to Lettice’s boy—an arrogant, insolent puppy, the

she-wolf’s cub—ready to vent her bitter spleen upon him; and checked,

with the cruel words unspoken.

There he stood, smiling at her, cocksure, confident, and red-haired,

like a young reincarnation of herself. How easily he might have been

taken for her son—her son, by Robin.

Suddenly, inexplicably, her anger was spent and she raised her hand to

touch his cheek gently.

In the gallery above the musicians had taken their places and were

waiting silently for her signal.

“The dancing begins,” she said quietly. “Go and find yourself a partner.”

His smile deepened; he reached out and captured the hand which had

touched his cheek, imprisoning it between his closed palms.

“Madam, I look now upon the only partner I shall ever desire.”

The warmth and strength of his fingers, so poignantly reminiscent

of Leicester, suddenly made her want to weep. But she could not break

down before this vast assembly; nor could she withdraw her hand again

without arousing spiteful comment. Like a cornered cat, she shrank

back a little in her chair, watchful, wary, ready to strike—but strangely

unwilling to do so for as long as it could be avoided.

Her eyes on his, her lips smiling to deceive the watching court, she

said in a chill whisper of command, “Release my hand.”

“I shall never release you, madam,” he returned, equally soft, “not

until you have danced with me here before them all—and shown them

how it is to be between the two of us from this moment on.”

In all her life no man had ever addressed her with such insolent

mastery. It echoed through her mind like the crack of a whip, and in its

darkest recess something stirred and slowly raised its head, like a snake

rousing lazily from a light slumber. Behind her eyes it quivered with life

and longing and its voice was a chill caress in her brain.

“
This is he, my precious…I choose him.”

“
No
,” said Elizabeth, soundlessly, “
I cannot do this thing. I will not do it,

not even for you. He is innocent.”

“
No man is innocent. And he is arrogant…he deserves it.”

“
Let him go. He has done no harm
.”

“
Give him time. Give him the opportunity. And then, when he no longer

pleases you…give him to me.
”

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She opened her eyes and found Essex was still smiling at her. He did

not know his danger. How should he?

“Release my hand,” she repeated, breathless against the sudden urge to

scream. “I shall dance with no man again.”

“No
other
man,” he corrected solemnly. “But you will dance with me,

madam, and you will dance tonight. Is that not so?”

“Partner me now, and I promise you will live to regret it.”

“I will take that risk,” he said steadily, “and take it gladly.”

A moment more she fought the quivering temptation. He saw she was

about to summon her maids and tightened his grip upon her hand hard

enough to hurt.

“Don’t do it, madam—I give you my word I will make a scene. I shall

leave this hall now and make it known to everyone in it how cruelly you

have wounded my pride. Dance with me once—it is all I ask.”

For now, she thought.

She rose slowly and the skirts of her diamond-studded mourning gown

swirled out towards him like a wave of shimmering darkness. Beneath the

watching eyes of a jealous court he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it

with masterful, mocking reverence.

She looked full into his face and gave him a smile which made his

brain reel with crazy elation.

“On your own head be it,” she said; and her voice was even, steady,

but ineffably sad.

He bowed low and led her to the centre of the floor, where every

dancer fell back to watch, in silent wonder. Like two performers on a

public stage, the Earl of Essex and the Queen wove the intricate steps of

the old pavane, while the music played soft and mournful in the gallery.

And so the dice were thrown and the scene was set for the final tragedy.

They danced together and shared a strange smile—the high priestess of

a heathen cult and her very willing sacrifice.

t t t

He was her constant companion now. The courtiers who had laid

bets on Raleigh’s ultimate ascendancy had long since paid up their

debts with a grim frown and gone about their business. Essex found

himself chained to her side by a fascination that was almost hypnotic.

She had only played with him before Leicester’s death, toying with

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vague interest, as at some cunning new dish presented to tempt her

scanty appetite.

But now that she truly hungered, he was a forbidden delicacy that

she must not devour. She dominated his existence from morning till

night, punishing him for the desire she could not bring herself to assuage,

tormenting, teasing, leading him so far, then drawing back coldly,

disgusted with herself, and with him. Leicester’s death had cheated her

of physical fulfilment with the one man she had come to trust against her

will; and now it was too late to learn to trust another. She had only to

give the word and Essex would take her gladly; but she would not give

it. The gulf of thirty-five years lay between them—it would be obscene!

And worse, it would mean betraying Leicester’s memory.

She could not enjoy his body then; but others could—and did—and

she hated them for it. She had begun to hate all lovers, each and every

person around her who led a natural life with a mate. The mere mention of

marriage was liable to provoke an outburst of temper, and lovers avoided

her glance, taking their pleasures in secret corners, in terror of discovery.

Five years slid away, almost without trace; the Queen was nearly sixty

and the Earl of Essex was still at her side. Only now they were fighting.

They said he was the one man left in England with the courage to do it.

He committed more breaches of etiquette than the rest of the court put

together; he disobeyed her; he made love to her women without subter-

fuge; he withdrew from court whenever he could not have his own way

in any dispute. Each time, after some brief outburst of rage, she welcomed

him back and marvelled at her own weakness. And each time he returned

a little more drunk on the sense of his own importance, his utter certainty

that his power was growing. No woman had ever held his attention for

long, except the Queen, but her subtle promise of surrender—complete

and utter surrender to his will—the prospect of conquering where no man

had conquered before, held him like a lodestone.

For himself, he had many assets. A real promise of military leader-

ship, a rising influence at court, a steady, growing popularity among the

people—the only one of her favourites not to be hated by the populace.

The boy with the red-gold hair looked like a king when he rode through

the streets to Essex House or Wanstead and was cheered with mounting

enthusiasm whenever he appeared.

But his chief asset was undoubtedly his curious hold on the Queen’s

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affections. The sense of achievement this gave him was an intoxicating

madness. She was like a tigress in his captivity, safe only for as long as he

could accurately gauge the length of chain which bound her. The length

of that chain varied from day to day, so that he could never be quite

sure of leaping beyond reach of her paw. It was that which exhilarated

his senses, bringing him back again and again to take his chance against a

multifaceted cat who beguiled and baffled, intrigued and infuriated him

by turns. Her timeless magic held him fast in its steely grip and he was

not troubled by its unnatural overtones, for he never even noticed them.

But she did. And once she drove her women out of her presence for

some imagined fault, that she might be alone with her nameless fear.

She took Leicester’s miniature from her casket and addressed it with

tears of despair.

“Oh, Robin—why did you ever bring him here?”

The portrait gave no answer, but she fancied it looked at her with

silent reproach, and she shut it away quickly, with a horrible feeling of

guilt. Oh, yes—she was playing with fire now, she knew it. But she

had lived with danger all her life and she could not live without its

challenge, could not fall back and watch life become quiet and safe and

tiresome. She needed Essex; needed the fight which he alone seemed

able to give her.

Yet there was one point on which she was obdurate, and he beat

himself against it like a persistent bee hammering against a window-pane,